


let it go

by seventhstar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Body Swap, Evil Twins, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Self-cest, Sort Of, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: amnesty fic collection, featuring unfinished (for now) oneshots. so far: testicle au, bdsm au, telepath dream sex, and incubus!yuuri au.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 54
Kudos: 156





	1. testicle au pt 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thishasbeencary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/gifts).



When Yuuri doesn’t call after Sochi, Viktor doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care that they spent all evening together, laughing and talking and dancing. He doesn’t care that Yuuri tried to fuck him with his eyes while he hung upside down from a pole, or that Yuuri clung to him like a limpet and asked him to coach him, or that Yuuri looked extremely cute with a tie around his head. He absolutely does not care that Yuuri begged to stay with him overnight and slept in the second bed in Viktor’s hotel, he definitely doesn’t care that Yuuri stripped down to nothing while Viktor’s back was turned and ended up giving Viktor an eyeful he’ll never forget…and he absolutely, definitely, in no way cares that Yuuri vanished in the morning without saying a word.

(And he was not disappointed when he woke up to find he had both his own eyes and hands and ears.)

Maybe Yuuri was drunk and didn’t mean any of it. Maybe he thinks Viktor didn’t mean any of it. So many people see Viktor the performer and take it to mean Viktor is a liar. So what? Viktor doesn’t need him to call. He doesn’t need anyone right now. He’s going to win his fifth consecutive World Championship.

(”Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Viktor asks Makkachin one night.

“Woof,” Makkachin says, and she licks his face comfortingly before climbing on top of him.

“Yes, I think so too.”)

Twenty-seven years old, three Olympic medals, five consecutive years where he’s won everything, a comfortable retirement fund, the feature in ESPN’s Body Issue, the words “living legend” permanently appended to his name—what else could Viktor want? He’s not too old, he reminds himself daily; there’s no need to worry about not having swapped with his soulmate until he’s thirty.)

So Viktor takes gold at Russian Nationals. At the European Championships. He gears up for Worlds, so focused that one afternoon Yakov sends him home early with an uncharacteristic look of concern. Viktor sighs as he trudges into his apartment and snags his computer. He can clear his inbox.

There’s not much of interest. Some from his agent, some from his publicist, some from the Russian Skating Federation, a bunch of cat pictures from Chris, a reminder from the salon about his next laser appointment…

“Huh.”

The laser is just for maintenance at this point, as the initial round Viktor did a few years ago was pretty effective. It was pricey, since this is the only salon in St. Petersburg that has a laser that works on light-colored hair, but Viktor’s had one too many scrotum waxing injuries and was willing to shell out for it. Does he even have any hair down there anymore?

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

Viktor shrugs off his bathrobe and pads, naked, into his bedroom, where there’s a full length mirror. He puts one foot up on the vanity and reaches down to examine himself.

The left one is silky smooth. The right one has some wiry stubble. Why one and not the other, Viktor can’t imagine; he tilts the mirror back so he can see how much hair there actually is.

“What the fuck?”

His right testicle is the wrong color. And the wrong size. And the stubble is black.

A few minutes of furious googling leads him to the conclusion that he has cancer. Viktor prods his balls in the mirror; how could they betray him like this? He moisturizes every day! He eats so many antioxidants! He washes his hands before burying his face in them. This is a disaster.

Viktor needs help. So he calls Chris.

“Hello?”

“Chris, can your testicle hair randomly change color?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can it?”

“…no? Maybe?” There’s some rustling in the background.

“You’re checking your balls right now, aren’t you?”

“They look divine, thanks for asking. What’s wrong with yours?”

“The right one looks weird.”

“How weird?”

Viktor snaps a picture and sends it.

“…huh,” Chris says. “I really have no idea. I always thought you were a natural blonde.”

“I am a natural blonde,” Viktor says miserably.

“Can’t you just go to the doctor?”

“I guess. I’ll call in the morning.”

“Do you feel all right otherwise? Did you have sex with anyone weird?”

Viktor feels great, except for the total heartbreak, and he wishes he was having sex. But there’s no time during the season, and Yuuri had been too drunk for anything to happen even if he had seen Viktor naked because when Viktor turned around and saw him pantless he’d dropped the towel in shock—

“Chris, do you have any nudes of Katsuki?”

* * *

“You see, testicles are a bilateral body part,” Viktor explains. “So it makes perfect sense. Clearly Yuuri is my soulmate.”

“Woof,” Makkachin says.

“It’s not like I’ve seen anyone else’s balls!”

“Arf.”

“But then why hasn’t he called me? Does he not know? Does he think he has cancer?”

“Woof woof.”

“You’re right, Makkachin. I should reach out to him.”

Makkachin licks him.

“I knew you would understand,” Viktor says. He pets Makkachin, who is lying on top of him, some more. She has a sixth sense for Viktor’s feelings; whenever he needs to talk she lies down and listens.

Viktor hasn’t told anyone else his theory, just in case he’s wrong and it’s actually cancer. He figures if Yuuri turns him down, he’ll come back to Russia and handle it somehow. He already made the appointment with the doctor. Unfortunately, he has no way of confirming his theory without talking to Yuuri, since Yuuri has no social media and Viktor doesn’t have his number. Besides, Viktor is a romantic. This is his soulmate they’re talking about! They need to meet in person.

Plan made, Viktor searches Yuuri Katsuki fan blogs until he tracks down Yuuri’s family home in Hasetsu. Then he wins Worlds. Then he ditches the afterparty with Chris and Yakov’s abrasive mother henning to get on a train to Hasestu. This is a foolproof plan that cannot go wrong.

Hasetsu isn’t far from Fukuoka; Viktor is hauling his luggage off the train before he knows it, Makkachin at his heels. She’s been wildly excited ever since they left Russia. Makkachin hardly ever travels with him, and Viktor can’t remember why. All the hassle of carrying a standard poodle are outweighed by the pure joy of having a giant fluff with him constantly.

He walks from the station to Yu-topia. Everything is new to Viktor, who hasn’t traveled for fun nearly as much as he should. Hasetsu is small, but it’s already charming. A passerby gives Viktor directions that he vaguely understands. There are gulls crying in the distance somewhere.

Finally, he reaches the inn.

He’s greeted by a woman who must be Yuuri’s mother—the resemblance is uncanny. She is plump and dark-haired and her smile is welcoming in a way that Viktor, whose mothers both passed when he was thirteen, feels in his chest like a bullet.

“Welcome,” she says.

“Is Yuuri here?”

“You’re here to see Yuuri! He’ll be so happy. Go and enjoy the onsen while you wait.”

She pats him on the arm, probably because she is tiny and unable to reach his head. Viktor nods, because a hot spring sounds like an amazing idea, and hurries to unload his luggage in the room another member of the Katsuki family—Yuuri’s sister, he thinks, who he desperately wants to give haircare recommendations—shows him to. Makkachin remains in the room, nosing around happily.

“I’ll be back,” Viktor tells her. “If you see Yuuri, jump on him, okay?”

He washes off before descending into the onsen. It’s heavenly, and private; whether that’s good luck or the Katsukis making arrangements for him, he doesn’t know. He makes a mental note to find out so he can thank them appropriately. The hot water makes him feel like he’s melting.

Maybe Yuuri’s been too busy bathing to realize one of his testicles is Viktor’s. Sighing with pleasure, Viktor reclines against the side of the pool. He’s content to wait.


	2. testicle au pt 2

Yuuri’s life is already shitty: his dog died and he wasn’t there to say goodbye, he fucked up his free skate and came in last at the Grand Prix Final the first time he qualified, he bombed his own country’s Nationals and couldn’t complete the season, and his idol, Viktor Nikiforov, didn’t even know who he was. Everything is terrible. Discovering that one of his balls is a weird shape and color is just icing on the cake of disappointment.

Probably he should have gone to a doctor when he first noticed, but he didn’t. Probably he should tell someone he might be sick, like his dad, or Nishigori, or a doctor. Probably Yuuri should do a lot of things, but instead he doesn’t. He works out. He skates alone at odd hours. He does chores. The days pass.

Something about the air in Hasetsu begins to rejuvenate him.

“Yuuri! Come shovel the snow!”

For a moment, Yuuri thinks he’s misheard—it’s way too late in the year for snow—but when he draws the curtains, there’s a thick coat of white snow falling over the yard outside. He misses Phichit suddenly. He can’t let his family do all the work, though, no matter how much he wants to sleep away the next decade. He drags on a sweater and creeps down to the front door, shovel in hand.

He opens the door and—

“Woof!”

A giant poodle crushes him, lapping at his face with its lolling tongue.

“Vicchan?” He ruffles the dog’s fur. “No, you’re ten times Vicchan’s size. Who…?”

“Friendly, isn’t she? Reminds me of our Vicchan.” His dad comes over, tray of tea in hand. “She came with some guest. A good looking foreign guy with an accent.”

Hot foreign guy? Accent? Poodle!? Yuuri can almost hear sirens going off in his mind. It’s impossible, he thinks. It can’t be. Why would he be here? It’s probably some tourist. Lots of people love poodles.

Yuuri’s brain is in denial but his body overrides all his thoughts. He runs. He knocks down a table. He sprints through the bathroom, slipping on the tile. He bursts out into the onsen and—

“Hello, Yuuri!” Viktor stands up. He is…naked. Very naked. His skin is…there’s a lot of skin and all of it is right there. “As you can see, I’m your—”

“Aaah!” Yuuri says. Words are impossible. Panic thickens his tongue. He takes a step back, and then another, and then Viktor moves towards him, arms outstretched like a water demon luring him into the deep. Yuuri can’t even say it’s not effective. A water demon that looked like Viktor would kill Yuuri so fast.

Thankfully, the door is right there. Yuuri flees.

* * *

Nowhere is safe anymore.

When Yuuri comes back from his run, sweaty and mostly sure naked Viktor was some kind of stress-induced gay hallucination, Viktor is still fucking there. He’s lying on the floor, wearing a green jinbei that’s gaping open, hugging his dog, sneezing cutely. Yuuri nearly trips over him in his determination to have him not exist.

Before he can flee again—there are a lot of places to run in Hasetsu, Yuuri will go into the ocean if he has to—Viktor wakes up. His jinbei falls down his shoulder. He begs for a meal, still holding onto his dog like Makkachin is a stuffed toy instead of a living creature. Worse yet, Makkachin doesn’t even care. She happily allows herself to be snuggled.

It kind of hurts to look at her. Vicchan, too, was happy to be Yuuri’s comfort. Yuuri could pick him up as much as he wanted, even if no one else could.

“Hi,” Viktor says.

“No,” Yuuri replies.

“…excuse me?”

“I have to—do a thing.”

“Yuuri, come get Vicchan’s dinner!” His mother calls. It takes Yuuri several horrified seconds to realize his mother has given Viktor a nickname. Of course she has. With Yuuri’s luck she’ll adopt him as a second son. His mother likes to feed people.

He trudges to the kitchen, where a tray of katsudon is pressed into his hands. It’s steaming. Yuuri carries back and sets it gingerly in front of Viktor, who is staring at him. Why is he staring? Is Yuuri ugly?

“What?”

“Don’t you think you’re being rude?” Viktor asks. “I came all this way!”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, “but why?”

Viktor blinks. “…you…don’t know?”

“Know what? We’ve never met before, so I don’t really…”

“Never met—how dare you?” Viktor says indignantly. Yuuri actually leans back from the force of it. It figures that the first thing Viktor would do in this situation is be mad at Yuuri. Everything else has already gone wrong, why not this too? “How can you say that to me!”

“But I—”

“You’re the one who insisted on stripping!”

“I—the fuck?”

“And then never called!”

“I don’t have your phone number!”

“You’re telling me you can do a beautiful layback Ina Bauer that makes men cry but you couldn’t figure out how to get my phone number?”

“No, I—wait, you like my Ina Bauer.”

“It’s perfect,” VIktor says impatiently, “but that’s not the point—”

“I think you must be confused,” Yuuri says, “or like—I’m Yuuri Katsuki. We’ve never met.”

Viktor puts both hands on his head like he’s going to rip his hair out—and that would be a loss to the world—and then sighs and holds out his arms to Makkachin. Makkachin climbs onto him, paws over his shoulders; Yuuri feels the ache of Vicchan’s death like a punch to the stomach.

“Yuuri,” Viktor begins, “I—”

“Sorry, have to go,” Yuuri says. He gets up as fast as possible, nearly tripping in his rush to get away, go anywhere, to not be this room anymore. “I just—bye.” He walks backward into the hallway and flees to his bedroom.

His bedroom is full of stupid Viktor Nikiforov posters. At least three of them have Viktor with Makkachin.

Yuuri takes them all down and slides them under the bed before he hides himself under the covers and stays there until he falls asleep.

* * *

In the morning, Yuuri gets up extra early to shower, hoping that jet lag will keep Viktor asleep. He’s in luck; when he puts his ear against the banquet room door, there’s the sound of breathing from within. And now he feels like a creep. But at least he can bathe in peace.

Once he’s scrubbed down, he finds himself prodding his misshapen testicle again. It doesn’t hurt, and after a brief ‘testicular cancer’ google search, Yuuri did an exam to check for masses. No, it’s just mysteriously changed color and stopped growing hair. The other testicle has finally recovered from Phichit’s one successful attempt to get Yuuri to come to a manscaping salon with him, and is growing fine black stubble.

How does anyone do that willingly, Yuuri wonders. And he has a high pain tolerance. Phichit had gotten one strip in and fled, the coward, leaving Yuuri to be denuded alone.

Yuuri sighs and rinses himself off. It’s probably fine. So what if one of his balls has just decided it’s Caucasian now? There are so many bigger problems in his life right now.

Like Viktor—

Viktor who showed up naked and insisted Yuuri had stripped and seemed offended that Yuuri didn’t want him around. Viktor who thinks Yuuri’s Ina Bauer is beautiful. Viktor who is pale and hairless.

“Nope,” Yuuri says. “It’s impossible. This can’t be Viktor’s testicle. Besides, what am I going to do, just ask him if he’s my soulmate?”

There is a loud thump directly outside the bathroom door. “Makkachin, did you hear that?”

“…why am I like this?” Yuuri bumps his head against the wall. Well. That solves that problem.


	3. testicle au pt 3

Yuuri makes a valiant attempt to escape. Viktor admires him, really, it must have taken a lot of flexibility and power to climb through a window. It’s not his fault that Makkachin has decided Yuuri is her new favorite.

“Wow,” Viktor says. “You’re strong, Yuuri.”

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“It looks like you would rather climb out a window than speak to me.”

“I can explain.”

“Okay.”

Viktor waits.

“…can you get her to let go of my shirt?” Yuuri asks. Makkachin whines. “Please?”

“How’d it happen?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t remember whatever it is that happened. How exactly did we…?”

He doesn’t remember. The relief is so profound that for a moment Viktor can’t speak. If Yuuri doesn’t remember, it means he didn’t know. It means that maybe it was never about not wanting Viktor at all.

“It was at the banquet after the Grand Prix Final,” Viktor says. He remembers clearly Yuuri’s hands on his arm, clinging stubbornly, as he explained that he couldn’t leave Viktor. He had not explained why. He had acted as if he didn’t need to. “I was walking you up to your room, but you insisted we stay together, so I just let you sleep in mine. We were both getting undressed. I guess it was fate.”

“We couldn’t have swapped eyes or something instead?”

“That would have been more convenient, wouldn’t it? But I like that it happened when we were alone.”

Viktor reaches for his hand.

“Right.” Yuuri clears his throat, and pulls his hand away. “At least I wasn’t naked in public.”

“Oh, of course not. You kept your underwear on. And the tie.”

“Alcohol was a mistake.”

“Though that tie was hideous, so it would have been better if you’d taken it off.”

“Hey,” Yuuri says. “I like that tie and—wait, why was I stripping?”

“Well, you had to take off your pants to get on the pole—”

“Never mind! Never mind. I don’t need to know anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Now they’re just staring at each other, in silence. Yuuri’s expression is infuriatingly blank. How can he meet his soulmate and have no opinion whatsoever? Viktor’s never had so many feelings in his life.

“So…uh…” Yuuri gestures between their bodies. “How do we do this?”

By ‘this’ he must mean swap back.

“I…” Viktor has thought in great detail about how they would do this, about how it might feel, about how Yuuri might look at him. Viktor did not imagine that Yuuri would treat him like he has the plague, but here they are. He sighs. “You can sit in my lap?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure this au exists because of cary. i don't remember the context but i'm pretty sure "testicles are bilateral" is a thing i said to her. i'm so sorry
> 
> the bdsm au is all piecemeal so idk yet how much of it i'm gonna post, but the incubus!yuuri and telepathic dream sex aus should be up tomorrow or saturday, depending on how much free time i have


	4. incubus!yuuri au pt 1

Yuuri is a picky eater.

Unfortunately, today he’s hungry. Normally Yuuri feeds on the ambient energy of the people around him, a little at a time, the way a plate left out in the sun will slowly warm. Normally Yuuri prefers to keep his sex life just that: sex, without feeding off his partners. If an ambient feeding is like orange La Croix, a personal feeding is like orange concentrate. It’s only good if he really, really likes the flavor—and there are very fewer people Yuuri wants to taste that much.

But he needs to eat, and so here he is, hanging out at one of the many clubs that caters to the supernatural. Most of the humans who come to places like this do it to hook up with nonhumans: to get heir blood drunk by vampires or get knotted by werewolves or hypnotized by sirens. And of course, they want to fuck incubi. More than one person has come over to him to offer to be his dinner tonight. So far, Yuuri has turned down all of them. If he doesn’t eat tonight, he’s going to have to spend the next couple days hanging out in some crowded public place, pulling in their energy until he’s recovered.

Five minutes, Yuuri thinks. Then I’m going home, I’ll just take my laptop to the mall and work there for the rest of the week.

“Is that a fae?”

“Has to be, look at that hair. He looks kind of familiar—think he’s a model?”

“Oh my god, I follow him on Instagram!”

The people at the table next to him are ogling someone at the bar. Curious despite himself, Yuuri follows their gaze; he knows most of the people here. The supernatural community in New Town City is pretty insular. Newcomers are rare—and Yuuri doesn’t know any fae.

Yuuri would have remembered meeting this one.

His hair is pale, too silver to be blonde or human. He’s turned so that Yuuri can barely see his profile, but the skin of his arm almost glows. His clothes would be plain on anyone else, but on him, they only suggest intriguing things about the body underneath. Must be at least a sixteenth, Yuuri thinks, to look like that. The more fae blood someone has, the more unearthly their beauty tends to be. Supposedly, if a child is born more than one eighth fae, they’re taken into whatever parallel world the fae live in; they’re not human enough to live here.

None of Yuuri’s waffling about the nature of the fae distracts him from the sudden, visceral attraction.

He tips his head back to taste; even across the room, he can feel it, a kind of cool anticipation. Yuuri is one hundred percent sure that if he goes over he’s going to be rejected. Someone who looks like that is alone at the bar only because he wants to be.

Definitely a bad idea to even try. Yuuri’s not even drunk enough to be stupid.

There are empty barstools on either side of the stranger. Yuuri picks one and sits down.

“Hey.”

The stranger’s eyes are blue, and he’s beautiful; the lights falling blue over his face only adds to the effect.

“Hello.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Yuuri notices too late that he already has a half-full glass of clear liquor in front of him.

“All right.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Water.” The man shrugs. “Surprise me.”

So Yuuri flags down the bartender and orders his usual. The drinks are served up: one shot glass of incubus wine, and one shot glass with a teaspoon of incubus wine diluted with club soda.

“Is that it?”

“Trust me, that’s more than enough.”

Yuuri watches as he swallows, following the line of his throat down to the hollow between his collarbones. It’s a good view. He closes his eyes, clearly pleased.

“It’s good.” He finishes it. “I’m Viktor.”

“Yuuri.” He didn’t expect to get this far; now that he is, he’s suddenly nervous. Viktor is watching him expectantly, and Yuuri’s not particularly smooth. It doesn’t help that this close, Yuuri can feel enough of Viktor’s energy to know he’s exactly to Yuuri’s taste. “You’re new.”

“I’m on vacation,” Viktor says.

“From where?”

“St. Petersburg. Russia.”

“And you’re on vacation here?” New Town City isn’t exactly a tourist hotspot. Yuuri’s not even sure he’s ever met any visitors that weren’t from other parts of the state. “Why?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Yuuri regrets them.

Viktor shrugs. “Why not? I’ve never been here.” He inclines his head at the dance floor behind them. “I would have drawn a lot of attention somewhere popular.”

“You’re drawing a lot of attention now.” There’s a tiny drop of wine at the corner of Viktor’s mouth. Yuuri can’t stop looking at it.

“Really?” Viktor laughs. “You’re the first people to even talk to me all night. I was getting bored. At least at my hotel it would be quiet.”

At least Yuuri isn’t the only person intimidated by Viktor.

If he thinks this is loud, he hasn’t been to a lot of clubs. The music here is lower, to accommodate supernatural hearing; Yuuri’s been to clubs where the only way to understand what anyone’s saying is either a megaphone or lipreading. Viktor absently licks the wine at the corner of his mouth away; Yuuri leans in a little, without thinking, lured in by the slow warming of Viktor’s energy. It doesn’t feel like he’s uninterested—and normally Yuuri is good at telling.

(Possibly too good. More than once his friends have asked him why he turns people who are hitting on him down.)

“I live around the corner,” Yuuri says. “If you want to drink somewhere quiet.”

Viktor raises his eyebrows. Yuuri downs his shot of wine, as if it will distract him—incubus wine doesn’t actually get incubi drunk—and prepares to backpedal.

“Sure.”

“I—” Yuuri blinks. “Okay.” He fumbles for his wallet and puts down some money on the bar. “Let’s go.”

* * *

He’s miscalculated.

If Viktor looked unearthly in the club, he looks even moreso in Yuuri’s apartment, which still looks like a dorm room. Yuuri graduated college one year ago and has lived here three, and theoretically he should have collected some adult trappings, like furniture he didn’t get off Craiglist. But Yuuri’s been pouring all his money into the business and into his student loans. He hasn’t actually bothered.

Viktor sits down at Yuuri’s dining room table, which doesn’t match his metal folding chairs. Yuuri opens the kitchen cabinet with the liquor; maybe a drink will distract him from the fact Yuuri’s apartment looks like he never has guests.

(Yuuri has guests. It’s just that his friends don’t care and his one night stands are usually sufficiently distracted.)

“What do you want?” Yuuri asks. He peers into his cabinet, and yes, Phichit has borrowed alcohol from him again. “I have…a beer. And tequila. And wine.”

“White or red?”

“Uh.” Yuuri frowns. “I can’t tell, the label on the box is kind of smeared.” He snags two cups out of another cabinet—they’re plastic, but the thick clear kind from Costco—and pours what’s left of the wine into it. There’s just enough for a glass, which is fine. Yuuri doesn’t drink if he has to feed. “Here.”

He sets the glass down in front of Viktor and sits down across from him. The chair squeaks alarmingly under him as Viktor eyes the glass before prodding it gingerly.

“…is this plastic?”

“I don’t have any wineglasses.”

“You barely even have wine, that came out of a box,” Viktor says. That’s so rude. Why does he have to be hot and delicious, Yuuri thinks. “What, I don’t rate an ordinary glass?”

“I…don’t have any. A friend borrowed them.”

“All of them?”

“I only had four.” And Leo took them when he was getting moved into his new place and never gave them back, and that was three months ago, and Yuuri’s just been drinking out of the plastic cups he buys in bulk and the one mug he owns.

“You can buy glasses for under a dollar,” Viktor tells him. “It’s less expensive than—” he motions at the plastic glass before drinking out of it—”this. Ugh.”

“Is this why you were drinking water at the club?”

“No, I forgot my wallet at home.”

“How’d you get in without ID?” Yuuri asks, though as soon as he does he knows the answer. Nightclubs for the nonhuman are notoriously sketchy about checking IDs. Besides, Viktor is still radiant under Yuuri’s horrific tube lighting, he could have just glamored them into doing what he wanted.

“I needed ID?” Viktor asks. He tries the wine again. “Are you sure this is wine?”

“What’s wrong with it?” It’s Yuuri’s good wine. He bought it at a Whole Foods.

“It tastes like vinegar. Do you actually serve this to people?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually have a drink.”

“Oh.”

Viktor glances around his apartment, gaze lingering on the one kitchen cabinet that’s crooked, and the three fraying sponges stacked by the sink because Yuuri keeps forgetting to throw the old ones out, and the baseboards. Viktor probably scrubs his with a toothbrush; he’s immaculate, without one hair out of place or one stray thread on his clothes.

“Did you seriously just come here to complain about my dishes?”

“No,” Viktor says. “But I hope your performance in bed is better than your taste in wine.”

Yuuri, despite himself, flushes. Viktor’s not exactly tactful, but Yuuri can’t bring himself to dislike it. He likes to prove people wrong. And Yuuri’s an incubus, so getting people off is the one skill he definitely has. And that wine has been in there for who knows how long.

He gets up—have these chairs always been this uncomfortable?—and walks around until he’s standing over Viktor, who looks up at Yuuri impatiently, tapping the table with his nails. His lashes are a shade dark than his hair is. Yuuri lays his hand just above the v-neck of Viktor’s shirt.

“Can I feed?”

“If you like.”

Viktor’s energy is easy to pull towards him; it’s warm with desire, loose with anticipation. The ache of hunger eases immediately. He doesn’t taste like a human at all. Yuuri could stand there all night, hand against his skin, and eat him up. A flush spreads where they’re touching. Viktor slumps in the chair, head tipped back, an instrument with cut strings.

Fuck, Yuuri thinks. It works better on some people than others, but normally Yuuri has to work harder than this to make someone melt like that. I bet I could make him come from across the room.

“Come on,” he says. “Bed.”

“Is your bedroom actually nice?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Yuuri takes up a little more of his energy, and Viktor’s head drops into his hand. Once Yuuri’s done with him he’s not going to notice.

* * *

The lights are off in the rest of the apartment. Viktor can see perfectly well in the dark, but he notices nothing. Yuuri kisses him against the wall, and then against a door, and finally the door opens behind him and they’re in the bedroom. Viktor lets Yuuri topple him back onto the bed, which takes up most of the room. The mattress is plush, the headboard padded; clearly this is where all of Yuuri’s money went.

As Yuuri joins him, fingers trailing down Viktor’s face, leaving a line of heat on his skin, Viktor closes his eyes. He shudders. As far as he’s concerned, it’s money well spent.

“Hang on, I have condoms.”

“Do we need them?” The odds of interspecies transmissions are so low, especially with incubi, that Viktor half-expected that Yuuri wouldn’t want one. Viktor doesn’t normally take risks.

Viktor doesn’t normally do a lot of things.

“I was clean as of three weeks ago,” he offers.

“I was, too,” Yuuri says, “but if you want, we can still—”

“It’s fine.” There’s no shadow of deceit on Yuuri’s face, when Viktor musters enough concentration to look. He leans his face against Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri pulls at his shirt, and Viktor raises his arms, letting it be taken off him. There’s a click as Yuuri reaches over him to do something, and then a light flicks on; there are bulbs set into the headboard, casting a warm yellow light over the bed. Viktor half-wishes they were still in the dark, but he says nothing. Yuuri is stripping off his shirt, too, and he definitely lives up to every whispered rumor about incubi Viktor’s ever heard.

He looks real. He looks like his muscles are from exercising; there are imperfections in his skin. His eyes—brown, with flecks of honey—have depth to them, like poetry. Viktor is weak to beautiful things; he wants to touch him.

They go back to kissing. Yuuri lays on top of him, hands wandering over Viktor’s chest, his mouth warm against Viktor’s mouth. He tastes good—like all the love interests in Viktor’s terrible romance novels. Viktor puts his hands on Yuuri’s back. He feels the muscles flex under the skin, the curve of Yuuri’s spine. He’s dimly aware that he ought to be doing something, but no one has ever kissed Viktor this much before, and the touch of Yuuri’s powers leaves him awash with pleasure. All he can do is kiss back and cling.

When Yuuri finally pulls away, leaving Viktor bereft, Viktor starts to wonder if it’s just a failure in his technique. He doesn’t get to finish the thought, because Yuuri touches his cheek and trails his fingers down, over his neck, over his chest.

“It goes down further than I thought it would.”

“What?”

Yuuri licks his lips. Viktor barely comprehends what comes out of his mouth next. “Your blush.” And he bends down to kiss where it ends.

He’s not supposed to be able to see that, Viktor thinks, but Yuuri’s mouth invokes the same heat under his skin and distracts him. Viktor’s spent years and years aware of the way his skin looks. Until this moment he’s never paid so much attention to how it feels. Yuuri puts his hands on Viktor’s chest, holding him against the bed as he works his way up Viktor’s chest, along his collarbone.

Viktor closes his eyes; the anticipation of Yuuri’s mouth is almost equal to the pleasure of being kissed. Yuuri’s mouth finds his neck.

Everything becomes hazy.

The expanse of his throat seems to be infinite; every erotic sensation is magnified, and everything else falls away. Viktor’s only dimly aware of the bed underneath him and the passing of time. If Yuuri weren’t on top of him, his chest against Viktor’s chest, he would have dissolved already. Yuuri’s hair is soft between Viktor’s fingers; his thigh is pressed between Viktor’s legs, where he’s achingly hard and too dizzied to do anything about it.

There’s a soft, warm sensation inside him, as if his soul is being kissed the way his body is. Later Viktor will realize that’s Yuuri feeding. In this moment he only knows that Yuuri’s desire for him goes straight to his head, like good wine.

It’s just as well, Viktor thinks, since his actual wine was so awful.

“Sorry.”

“…what?”

It takes Viktor a few seconds to put together a coherent thought. This is the part he knows; Yuuri will tell him what he wants Viktor to do. Probably it’ll be a blowjob. It usually is. Normally Viktor likes that: it’s impersonal, efficient. He doesn’t have to get undressed or waste time pretending he enjoys it or be hurt when his partner immediately leaves when they’re done.

Nothing about this is impersonal. He wishes Yuuri would go back to kissing him.

“I got distracted—fuck, you taste good.” Yuuri licks his neck. “What do you want me to do?”

“I…whatever you want.”

Maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. Maybe he should do something besides lying there while Yuuri efficiently takes off both of their pants, but Viktor’s not used to expressing what he wants, can’t think of anything he does. Yuuri is looking at him, leaning over Viktor on his elbows. He runs his thumb down the bridge of Viktor’s nose. His cock is touching the inside of Viktor’s thigh; Viktor whimpers.

He wants Yuuri to do something, but Yuuri stays where he is. He’s frowning, his thumb resting on the tip of Viktor’s nose, and Viktor opens his mouth to offer reciprocation. Clearly, the problem is that Viktor isn’t doing enough.

Like coming up for air, the feeling recedes. Suddenly Viktor is a little cold.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks. “Should I stop feeding?”

“Why?”

“Because you seem kind of out of it.”

Viktor is a little out of it. He shrugs. Being completely present and focused would be much less pleasant.

“Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I was enjoying it.”

“Mm.” The furrow in Yuuri’s brow smooths out. He squeezes Viktor’s bare thigh. The warm feeling returns, and Viktor lets himself float away, leaving behind all the fear of inadequacy. He reaches for Yuuri, and Yuuri takes his hand. With his other hand, Yuuri moves Viktor’s thigh, parting his legs. Viktor is flexible enough that he could spread them more: touch the mattress with his knees, put his legs over Yuuri’s shoulders or behind his own head. Instead he lets Yuuri work his way up the inside of Viktor’s thigh—slowly, Viktor aches with longing, he might beg—until finally, Yuuri wraps his fingers around Viktor’s cock.

His palm—the skin is rough—drags deliciously against Viktor’s skin. Viktor’s never been so sensitive in his life, not even when he was fifteen and magic started thrumming in his veins—he tries and fails to muffle himself. Yuuri flicks his thumb over the tip, where he’s wet. When was the last time someone touched me like this, Viktor wonders; nothing comes to mind.

Yuuri is panting, and leaving indentations in Viktor’s hand.


	5. incubus!yuuri au pt 2 (scraps)

“What do you do, Yuuri?”

“I make kitchenware,” Yuuri says. “My friends and I started the company in college. We try to make more efficient stuff, more ergonomic stuff, that kind of thing. Universal storage container lids, dishwasher safe reusable sandwich bags, handle covers you can snap onto your tools to make them easier to hold, ergonomic mixing bowls, moldable spatulas…” He realizes he’s rambling and cuts himself off. Viktor doesn’t need Yuuri to list their entire product line.

“Moldable spatula?”

“Yeah, you can bend the handle to get whatever shape you want. So you can get inside jars and bottles.”

“I hate trying to get things out of jars,” Viktor says. “Especially when there’s jam at the bottom and I can’t get it out.”

“Exactly. Who wants to throw away cookie butter just because the jar is a weird shape?”

“…cookie butter?”

“You’re so deprived,” Yuuri says. He can’t believe the number of things Viktor has never eaten. How does anyone get through life without ever eating instant noodles, or french fries at McDonald’s, or donut holes? It’s tragic. “Come on, we’re going to Trader Joe’s.”

* * *

“…do you eat?”

“Yes? Iron contamination is a myth.”

“No,” Yuuri shakes his head, recalling the wine debacle, “do you eat bacon?”

“Ugh.”

“Eggs?”

“Poached whites only.”

“Fruit?”

“Is it organic and non-GMO?”

“Seriously?”

“No,” Viktor says cheerfully. “Not about the fruit, anyway. Is there breakfast?”

“Uh.” That’s a good question. Yuuri has been kind of lax about groceries. He probably has one banana. “Sure. There’s spare toothbrushes under the sink, and I left a towel. Do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s fine.” Viktor looks around, presumably for his clothes, which are crumpled up on the floor.

* * *

“Hey, where do you live, anyway?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Oh.” That figures, Yuuri thinks. He’s never been there, but he figures it’s sunny, glamorous, definitely more Viktor’s style than New Town City. He wonders, again, why Viktor is here. There have to be more exciting places to have a private vacation; Viktor could clearly afford to go to a resort or something.

“I hate it there.” Viktor flops against Yuuri’s shoulder. “It’s full of people who stare at me, and there are too many fae, and everyone keeps checking to see if I’ve aged because I’m too old to be a model.”

“You—how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“That’s not old.”

“Am I aging? You can see through my glamour. How do I look?”

“Tired. And drunk.”

To Yuuri’s horror, Viktor starts crying. That is the exact opposite of what Yuuri wanted to happen. Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I just say ‘you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever seen’? Yuuri is terrible at being comforting. He stares at Viktor dumbly while he sniffles and hangs onto Yuuri’s shirt.

Viktor is a pretty crier, even without the glamour. It figures.

“Why are you crying,” Yuuri says. Oh, god, stupid words are still coming out of his mouth. “Most people look tired and drunk sometimes. I was tired for an entire semester in college.”

“Really?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I quit modeling?” Viktor sits up a little, but then he immediately leans in so that his face is a centimeter away.

“You’d…have to get another job?”

“I make a decent income off affiliate links.”

“So then why don’t you quit?” Yuuri asks. He’s pretty sure he’s missing something.

“I don’t know,” Viktor says. He slumps against Yuuri again. Yuuri catches him and sets his head in his lap. “You’re smart, Yuuri.”

“I’m really not.”

“Don’t go back to your hotel. Stay here.”

“Okay.” Yuuri pats him on the head. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really proud of that joke about GMOs


	6. but with you it's what i need [telepath yuuri au]

Before he’d met Yuuri, Viktor had gone through the post-competition events on autopilot.

After meeting Yuuri, Viktor is still going through the banquet on autopilot. Before Yuuri, it had been because he was bored. After Yuuri, it’s because he can’t stop thinking about the fact that he could be fucking Yuuri right now.

Instead he’s making small talk and trying as hard as possible to not be erect in public. He regrets everything: getting Yuuri a new suit for the occasion because he looks delectable in it, convincing Yuuri to come to the banquet at all instead of locking themselves in the hotel room to celebrate, wearing his tiniest pair of underwear. People keep coming up to him to congratulate him on his silver medal, and he thinks some of them are being snide about it, but honestly Viktor’s been a mixture of proud and elated and horny since Yuuri’s gold medal-winning score was announced. There’s no room left for him to be disappointed.

Something brushes down the back of his neck. Viktor shivers, and looks behind him, but there’s no one; Yuuri is across the room, in conversation with an old rinkmate. Maybe he imagined it.

He opens his mouth to continue talking; this time, the phantom touch starts at the nape of his neck and continues down to the small of his back. It’s impossibly warm against his skin.

_Yuuri._

_People keep asking me about the wedding._

_Yes, when are we getting married?_

Something brushes up the inside of Viktor’s thigh. Champagne tips over the edge of his glass; Viktor brings it to his lips and absently licks a stray drop off his fingers.

_You’re the one who told everyone we were engaged._

_What was I supposed to tell them? Wow, look at this friendship ring my Yuuri gave me?_

Viktor feels the heat of a kiss against his hand—he drinks to cover his blush—again, underneath his jaw—champagne runs down the side of the glass—against his lips.

“Distracted?”

“Hm?” Viktor manages a smile for Chris, who is smirking at him.

“That’s not Yuuri’s usual suit.”

“Of course not. As if I would let him make his triumphant entrance as World Champion in that thing.”

“Fits like a glove.”

“As it should.”

“You’re ridiculous, Viktor.”

“No one cares about me tonight,” Viktor says. Yuuri is gesturing with his free hand as he talks to Phichit; in his other hand he has the half-full glass of champagne he’s been nursing all night. It’s a pity; it’s better quality than what’s usually on offer.

_I’m never getting drunk at an official ISU event again._

_Are you sure? The poles in this room look sturdy._

_Never again._ Viktor feels Yuuri shudder.

_That’s disappointing. I was looking forward to seeing you dance for me._

Someone from the Russian skating federation wants to talk him, and Viktor manages a reasonable facsimile of interest as the official grills him. He can see Yuri nearby, looking grumpy as usual despite Otabek’s presence beside him. Chris is over with a group of ice dancers.

Viktor, in what feels to him like a superhuman, eight-quads-in-the-back-half-of-a-free-skate feat, does not look at Yuuri for almost an hour. He talks to another ISU official about scoring, then to a fellow coach about teaching quads. He listens to Yuri complain about he isn’t allowed alcohol and can’t help but think of himself, sneaking sips at banquets fifteen years ago. Everything had seemed shiny and new then.

Everything seems shiny and new now, too. Viktor runs his thumb over his ring and sighs.

“Are you going to be this gross forever?” Yuri asks.

“The walls in Hasetsu are thin,” Viktor replies.

“What?”

“I could hear you in your sleep the entire time you were there,” Viktor informs him. This is an absolute lie, but Yuri turns the color of an angry Yakov and makes himself scarce. Viktor snickers; poor Yuri, struck down by Yuuri like so many others, while Yuuri remains entirely oblivious. Yuuri’d actually asked Viktor why JJ kept staring at him. Viktor hadn’t had the heart to tell him that JJ seemed to have just realized he was into men, or into being destroyed by seductive playboys, or both.

Someone wraps around him from behind.

Viktor nearly drops his empty glass.

He can see Yuuri out of the corner of his eye, still out of arms’ reach—but he can feel Yuuri, too, Yuuri’s arms around his waist, his breath against Viktor’s neck, his knee pressed against the back of Viktor’s leg. If Viktor shuts his eyes he can smell him. He’s warm.

_You aren’t looking at me._

_If I look at you I’m going to be thrown out of this banquet for indecency._

Not-there Yuuri’s hands lay warm over Viktor’s stomach; they slide down, over his hips, his thighs, skin on skin as if Viktor’s pristine grey suit isn’t there. He’s still not used to this, the way Yuuri can make the thought of a touch as true as the real thing. He’s still not used to this, the way Yuuri can tease him in silence across a crowded room.

Viktor finishes off his glass as Yuuri’s nails bite into his thigh. He can feel Yuuri hard against him, pressed against his ass. Yakov is looking at him oddly, now; Viktor desperately hopes he doesn’t come over. No amount of practice has prepared him to bullshit his way through this.

 _We’re in public._ Even in his brain, it comes off breathier than he wants.

 _Meet me outside._ Yuuri sounds equally desperate. Viktor forces himself to make conversation, to not watch out of the corner of his eye as Yuuri saunters down the length of the room and out through the doors.

“You guys are cute together.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says. He follows, leaving the empty glass behind.

* * *

They end up in an unlocked conference room, Viktor sprawled in a chair, Yuuri straddling his lap. Viktor had fantasized about this in Sochi, afterward, when Yuuri’d been poured into his hotel room and Viktor was alone in the dark. That Yuuri had been one thing—slick and seductive—and this Yuuri, fumbling at Viktor’s tie between kisses, is another.

The tie is wrenched off, so hard it takes one of Viktor’s shirt buttons with it. Yuuri’s thumb presses into the hollow of his throat. Viktor swears he tastes like champagne—maybe Viktor is just a romantic but it’s served him well so far—he holds Yuuri by the hair and chases the taste with his tongue. Yuuri’s jacket slides down his shoulders. Once again, Viktor regrets buying Yuuri a new suit. The old one was much easier to remove.

_Told you._

_You can’t have the old one back._

He gives up on the jacket and slides his hands under Yuuri’s shirt, feeling his back, his beating heart. Yuuri rocks against him. He’s hard, pressed against Viktor’s stomach; the chair creaks alarmingly. He kisses like something out a dream.

“We,” Yuuri pulls away, “shouldn’t do this here.”

Viktor doesn’t care about being caught. And Yuuri digs his fingers into Viktor’s hair and tips his head back to kiss down his jaw, so clearly he doesn’t care, either.

_Everyone already knows about us._

_Yeah._ Yuuri’s lips are against Viktor’s neck; the chair scrapes against the carpet. _They do._

He closes his eyes as Yuuri sucks a mark into his skin, high enough that his collar won’t cover it. It feels good, Yuuri’s mouth right there over his pulse, his hips between Viktor’s hands. He gropes between Yuuri’s legs, trying to unbutton his pants even as he palms him through the fabric.

A sharp pain lances through Viktor’s skull. Beneath him, Yuuri flinches.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor asks. He pulls away and grabs Yuuri by the shoulders, examining his face for any sign of pain, even though it’s a useless endeavor. Yuuri has the pain tolerance of a furious bull. “Do you have a headache?”

“You want to talk about this now?” Yuuri tries to pull him back in to kiss him, but Viktor, with superhuman effort, resist.

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s kind of loud in there,” Yuuri admits.

Viktor cups Yuuri’s face in his hands, smoothing out the burrow in his brow with his fingers. It’s only recently that Yuuri’s been comfortable enough to talk about the pain his telepathy sometimes causes him; whenever the subject comes up, it inevitably devolves into Yuuri apologizing. A grief-induced headache had led Yuuri to go on a champagne-fueled bender at the GPF last season, but usually Yuuri just wants darkness and quiet.

“Why don’t you go back to our room?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yuuri.”

“I can deal with it.”

“Why do you have to deal with it? I’m here, I’ll go make your excuses. You can lie down for a bit.” In truth, Viktor would love to forgo the rest of the banquet and dote on Yuuri for a bit. But what Yuuri needs is dark and quiet, and that means Viktor really should leave him alone.

Yuuri sighs in a way that means Viktor’s won the argument. This doesn’t happen very often; he savors it. There are dark circles under his eyes from too many anxious nights leading up to this one. Maybe he’s just too tired to be contrary.

“I’m not contrary.”

“Mm.”

“Just because I added a quad one time.”

“One time?”

Yuuri rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Everyone keeps thinking about me,” he admits. “It hurts.”

Viktor nods, even though he doesn’t understand, and massages Yuuri’s temples the way Hiroko does. It had struck him deeply, the first time he’d seen it. Yuuri was hot and cold with his physical affection; every touch between them seemed laden with meaning. But with his family there was an ease. Viktor had longed for and missed it in equal measure. He hasn’t had a mother in a long time.

“It wasn’t this bad, earlier,” Yuuri mumbles. “I’m just tired.”

“You should rest,” Viktor says again. “And I’ll go back to the banquet and make a scene so that no one thinks about you.”

Yuuri smiles a little. _You think people won’t think about me if you make a scene?_

It’s occurred to Viktor that he thinks about Yuuri very often. And it’s occurred to him that Yuuri’s headache is his fault. He’d like to tell himself that if that was the case, Yuuri would have told him, but how can anyone make their thoughts quieter? How can Viktor censor his own mind? The worry is there, like an unreachable itch, that he hurts Yuuri without even knowing it.

Yuuri gets off his lap. Viktor retrieves his tie with great reluctance and puts it back on. It’s been mangled, but at least it’ll cover the missing button on his shirt. His hair feels like a lost cause. Somehow, despite wearing a jacket crumpled where Viktor tried to take it off him and glasses that are crooked, Yuuri looks perfect.

They end up walking down to the elevators together, hand in hand, through the empty lobby. Yuuri winces again at the sound of the bell when the elevator arrives. He squeezes Viktor’s hand tightly before he gets in.

“I’ll come up in an hour.”

“You don’t have to wait an hour.”

“It will take half an hour for the painkillers to work,” Viktor points out. “Not including the time you’ll spend trying to convince yourself you shouldn’t take them.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but the elevator doors slide shut before he can retort.

Viktor’s halfway to the banquet, trying to decide what blatant lie he’s going to tell if anyone asks him where he is, when he feels a phantom touch down the back of his neck.

_You’re supposed to be resting._

Yuuri doesn’t answer in words, but Viktor feels the heat of a kiss against his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave this one a _title_...i would love to finish it someday


	7. telepath yuuri au pt 2 [partial ch. 2 + scraps]

One excruciating hour later, Viktor finishes his second glass of champagne. He’s reached the point of drinking out of boredom. Why had he convinced Yuuri to come to the banquet? It had seemed important at the time, but after an hour of wallowing in guilt because the banquet had given Yuuri a headache, he feels like a fool for putting so much importance on it.

Yuuri hasn’t reached out to him since he went upstairs, either. Viktor hopes it’s because he’s feeling better and not because he’s still in pain.

Think quiet thoughts, Viktor tells himself as he makes his way upstairs. Their room is on the third floor; Viktor opens the door and winces when the hinges creaks. To his disappointment, the room is still dark, and there’s a Yuuri-shaped lump on the bed. The door closes behind him as Viktor takes off his jacket and drops it onto a chair. He sits down on the edge of the bed and touches Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yuuri?”

He doesn’t stir. Yuuri is fast asleep, covers tucked up around his ears. Viktor takes off his glasses and sets them on the bedside table. He’s half-disappointed; they’re flying out in the morning to Japan, so there’ll be no real privacy for two weeks. But he’s relieved, too. At least Yuuri’s getting some rest.

Viktor feels around in his suitcase until he finds his oversized pouch of toiletries. It’s filled with tiny travel-size glass bottles that Viktor fills before he travels.

(”What’s wrong with travel-size toiletries?”

“Too expensive.”

“Toothpaste and deodorant are expensive? The hotel gives you shampoo.”

“Shh. Just hold this funnel for me.)

Face washed and suit shed, Viktor gives up on repacking anything in the dark. He slides into bed beside Yuuri, curls against him so that he can touch his lips to Yuuri’s hair. In the silence, he falls asleep.

* * *

Viktor dreams.

He’s in a dark room, lying on a soft bed. It’s so cold that his bare skin prickles. Someone’s hands are on him, sliding down the back of his neck and over his shoulders and again down his back. It’s a soft touch; it lingers. Viktor arches back into those warm hands, and immediately they withdraw. He slumps back down, the cool sheets silken against his cheek.

* * *

[scraps]

“I’ve never really told anyone before.”

“I know.”

“I try not to get into other people’s heads too much.”

“I know, Yuuri, you would never—”

“But it’s hard,” Yuuri blurts out. “Not being in yours. Because I think about you all the time.”

+

"...it doesn't." Yuuri buries his face against Viktor's shoulder. "It doesn't feel like intruding with you."

+

"Couldn't you tell?" Viktor taps his temple.

"No, I don't--I hate reading people's minds," Yuuri says hurriedly. Viktor's incredulity must show on his face--if he could read minds, he would--because Yuuri goes on, "It feels weird, like--like sticking your hand in

_[yes, i stopped writing mid-sentence. whoops. i meant to think of a simile but then, like, didn't.]_


	8. eros/yuuri/viktor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't remember writing this. it was in gdocs and i can't find a version in scrivener so honestly...who knows...

There’s an announcement on repeat playing in the lobby of Yubileyniy Sports Palace when Viktor finishes up his practice and starts home. Mind on Yuuri, who claimed a mild headache and who left early, he nearly steps out of the house without a fusion band.

“Sir!” Dmitri, the receptionist, flags him down. “Don’t go out without this!”

Viktor wonders how Dmitri knows Viktor is still whole and hasn’t been split by the anomaly. He could be evil Viktor, having tied good Viktor up and left him in the rink locker rooms chained to a showerhead, not that Viktor has an extremely specific sexual fantasy about this. The intercom overhead is still blaring.

  
_Attention, splitting anomaly is underway. Code Blue is in effect. Please be sure to wear the appropriate fusion bands in public. If you see or hear any criminal activity, please call the police. Attention, splitting anomaly is underway…_

Viktor smirks to himself as he slides the red band over his wrist, pulled down below his sleeve so it’s visible. Even if Yuuri did have to go home early because he was splitting, so what? Yuuri probably doesn’t even have an evil side. At worst there’ll be one Yuuri who helps with the dishes and one who insists wet food is satanic and makes Viktor do it. (And really, who can blame him? Viktor also hates touching dirty dishes.)

Humming to himself, he ignores the signs being hung up in shop windows _(Remember to wear your fusion band! No splits allowed)_ and the tentative “Uh, Nikiforov, sir…” of one of his neighbors as he steps into his building. Viktor shrugs off his jacket in the elevator. If Yuuri still has a headache, Viktor can make him some herbal tea and a fried egg. And put Makkachin on top of him so he actually rests. It could be stress; Yuuri was up at three in the morning, playing with Viktor’s hair and staring blankly at the ceiling.

Viktor takes his keys out of his bag and turns them in the knob.

“I’m hom—"

“Vitya, no—”

 _I was wrong,_ Viktor thinks as the door falls shut behind him. _Yuuri does have an evil side._

There are two Yuuris. They’re both naked, but one of them is on his knees and trembling, a golden cord pooling on the floor between his legs with a large egg-shaped vibrator attached to the free end, and a faint buzzing noise coming from inside him,; the other is standing over him, cool and confident, a golden remote in hand and his foot on the other Yuuri’s thigh. The evil Yuuri is taut and muscled, Yuuri in his peak competitive condition; the good Yuuri is soft with his off-season squish.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere if I were you,” evil Yuuri says. He drags the heel of his hand over his erection and then deliberately licks his palm. _Maximum Eros,_ Viktor thinks. “Poor Yuuri’s already waited so long to come. You don’t want him to wait anymore, do you?”

The good Yuuri opens his mouth to protest. Eros taps the remote and Yuuri doubles over in pleasure, whimpering as the buzzing noise gets louder. Viktor has no idea where the golden vibrators even came from, or when Yuuri had time to buy them. Though he can’t see he disapproves.

Yuuri gasps. “Please,” he says. “I’m going to come, I—” The vibration turns off, and Yuuri’s moan of disappointment is all the louder in the silence.

“I could let him come, I guess,” Eros says. He puts a finger to his lips in mock contemplation. “If you come and entertain me.”

“Okay,” Viktor says. He gives Yuuri what he hopes is a reassuring look. 

A blanket’s been laid out on the floor. Viktor slips off his shoes and socks, then comes to stand on it. He pulls off his shirt—his nipples are painfully hard underneath, and Eros reaches out to flick one—and pushes off his pants and underwear in one movement. Viktor kicks them away, and shivers.

It’s a little chilly in the apartment, and Viktor’s cocking is throbbing—whether from Eros’s amused look as he shoves Viktor down onto his knees, or from the little noise Yuuri makes when Eros taps the remote again, he has no idea. Viktor puts his hands on his thighs, knees spread, displaying his confused erection, and waits.

The sound of the vibrator gets softer, than louder, than softer again. Yuuri tips forward, scrabbling at the blanket for purchase until Viktor takes his hands. His nails dig into Viktor’s skin as he shudders.

“You don’t seem that worried about Yuuri, Vitya,” Eros says. He saunters around until he’s looming over Viktor, bent at the waist. He trails his toes along the top of Viktor’s cock, lingering over the head with his big toe. “Maybe I should just ignore him and take care of you instead…?”

“No,” Viktor says hurriedly, though the effect is spoiled by the way he squeals as Eros steps on his cock with just enough pressure to hurt. His foot is warm. “Don’t make him wait anymore—” Eros’s foot slides under his cock to nudge at Viktor’s balls, and he bites the inside of his cheek in his haste to not scream. 

“You’ll do what I want if I take care of him?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Eros grabs Viktor by the hair and turns his face into Eros’s crotch. “Let’s seal it with a kiss.”

Viktor presses a kiss to the tip of Eros’s red, hard cock; when Eros doesn’t release him, he gives it another, and another, and finally parts his lips so that Eros can push the head of his cock into Viktor’s mouth. He leaves it there while Viktor sucks, tonguing the slick so that the taste of precome fills the inside of his mouth. The hand on his head keeps him from moving forward or backward, and Viktor struggles in frustration; just the head isn’t enough, he wants Eros to shove his entire cock down Viktor’s throat. He wants to taste it when Eros comes.

“That’s enough.” Eros withdraws. 

He steps around Viktor so that he’s behind him, and kneels down until his chest is pressed against Viktor’s back. He reaches around to snag the vibrator lying between Yuuri’s open thighs. Yuuri jumps as the cord is pulled taut, no doubt pulling on the toy still inside him. Viktor squeezes his hands. 

“Shh,” he whispers as he hears the squelch of lube behind him. 

Eros doesn’t waste any time; Viktor jumps at the feel of the cold lube as Eros penetrates him. His fingers curl deep inside him, searching until he’s rubbing Viktor’s prostate with his fingertips. Normally Yuuri makes a production out of preparing Viktor, doing it slowly until Viktor begs to his satisfaction or until he loses patience, but his evil self is impatient. Eros stuffs Viktor with three fingers, fucking him relentlessly, lube dripping down Viktor’s thighs, Eros’s breath warm on Viktor’s neck.

“Tch,” he says as he twists his fingers and Viktor squirms. “I’d think a five time World Champion would have a tighter ass.”

“That’s mean,” Viktor says.

Eros laughs. Viktor hears the click of the remote, and the sound of the vibrator stops again. Yuuri clings to him; Viktor smooths his hair, shivering in anticipation.   
“But it’s true, isn’t it? I’m wasting my time here. I could have put this in you dry.”  
Viktor opens his mouth to protest, even though Eros is right and Viktor would have enjoyed that, but only manages a few broken syllables before Eros forces the vibrator inside him. It’s heavy—so big it feels like it’s weighing Viktor down, like it might fall out of him—and Eros tugs on the cord lightly, just enough to make Viktor feel it.

“Turn it back on,” Yuuri says desperately.

“Okay,” Eros says, and does.

Viktor understands immediately why Yuuri is so undone—it’s steady stimulation, but not powerful enough to overcome Yuuri’s stamina. The toys Yuuri uses make Viktor come in seconds; this isn’t nearly enough for him. But Viktor is easy.

“Feel good?”

“Yeah…”

Eros leaves them alone. Viktor clutches poor Yuuri, who has tears of frustration dripping down his cheeks, against him as they wait. There’s the sound of water running; he’s washing his hands, Viktor thinks, and is faintly amused by Eros’s consideration.  
When Eros comes back, he sits down behind Viktor again, and wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. The other hand splays across Viktor’s chest to toy with one of his nipples.

“W-wait—”

Viktor’s nipples are sensitive, so sensitive that half the time Viktor bats Yuuri’s hands away from them, so sensitive that once or twice he’s come just from having them pinched while they were making out. Eros circles it gently with his thumb, then flicks his thumb over the tip slowly, up and down, nail scraping over the skin. Viktor feels himself clench down on the vibrator with pleasure. 

Eros plays with Viktor’s other nipple with his free hand. He pinches them lightly; he alternates between right and left, between hard and soft. He licks a wet stripe over the nape of Viktor’s neck. Viktor’s heart is pounding in his chest, pulse throbbing in his throat; his cock is dripping a steady stream of precome without being touched.

It hurts, but it’s so good, Viktor can’t contain himself; he makes a wordless sound of pleasure that makes Eros laugh against his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to keep it real with y'all, i pasted this in from gdocs and then spent 20 min cleaning up the formatting. if you see typos feel free to point them out.
> 
> sorry that every scrap i post ends mid-scene, you're getting a real insight into my writing process here lol


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